


Pathways

by fhsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Challenge Response, Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-12
Updated: 2005-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-05 15:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: None





	Pathways

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

Skinner blew on his hands hoping the steamy clouds of warm breath would help restore the circulation to them before he pulled on his thick leather gloves. He tugged at the collar of his heavy wool coat, coaxing it higher around his ears and settled deeper into the seat. Watching the dawn come up over a Washington suburb in minus ten degrees was no way to spend the precious few hours he managed to get away from the Bureau these days. But it was another reason to fucking hate Alex Krycek. Only the remote possibility that the bastard right actually return to the apartment Skinner watched so intently had kept the Assistant Director on stake out for nearly twenty hours.

 

Twenty hours of freezing his balls off, drinking coffee and becoming more irritable by the minute. The gunmen, who had given him the tip off the day before, had spelled him for a few hours around two thirty in the morning, and he'd gone to the nearest Starbuck's to defrost and clean up. Under the cruel neon his haggard, unshaven face stared back at him from the restroom mirror and he'd asked himself a few serious questions about what he was doing with his life. Finding no answers of any consequence, he'd topped up his caffeine level to lethal and having become reacquainted with his feet, he'd trailed back to his car to resume the vigil.

 

He checked his watch, 7:04. The neighbourhood was beginning to stir. It was a pleasant tree lined street, with nicely maintained townhouses. Certainly no place for the likes of Alex Krycek, and all the more reason why Skinner thought they may have hit pay dirt this time. A rat's nest could be easily hidden among the homes of fitness conscious young professionals, setting off on their morning jogs, or of moms and dads struggling out with babies and carryalls on their way to childcare.

 

Wondering how long it would be before one of the residents called the cops to check out the stranger lurking in the dark sedan, he glanced into the rear view mirror, mindful of patrol cars. And that was when he saw him. Unmistakable Krycek, in his dress and manner. It was only as the man came closer that Skinner noticed the hunched shoulders and the weary eyes. His face, with its heavy five o'clock shadow, telling the tale of a man who'd had no rest or comfort for a long time.

 

Skinner, his eyes never leaving the image of the approaching figure in the mirror, moved fractionally in the car, beginning to reach for the weapon he'd placed in the side pocket of the door.

 

Then he froze, mimicking exactly the sudden, still posture of his enemy.

 

He watched Krycek hold position mid step, only his eyes moving as he scanned the area, clearly spooked.

 

Skinner stopped breathing, willing the other man to resume his journey. Seconds ticked away and still Krycek hesitated. But then, appearing to relax he took his right hand out of his pocket, a keychain dangling from his fingers. A few strides forward and Skinner allowed himself the luxury of a breath before grasping the butt of the gun firmly in his hand.

 

Krycek was making good progress towards the apartment entrance – fifty yards – forty yards –

 

Skinner rehearsed in his mind the tactics he intended to use in the collar. He could almost feel Krycek squirming in his grasp, could remember how good it felt to put the bastard in his place, could almost taste the sweetness of the victory –

 

Until Krycek drew level with the alleyway and, in the fraction of a second, was gone - a black blur of a shadow, quickly becoming lost among the other shadows of early morning.

 

"Fuck," Skinner muttered. He was out of the car and following before his brain processed the information.

 

His feet rapped out a loud tattoo as he pounded after Krycek, the gun clenched in his hand. He could neither hear nor see the other man, but instinct told him he was still moving somewhere ahead. Then suddenly he burst out of the confines of the alleyway into a busy street, sliding to halt just inches from the front bumper of a cab pulling into the kerb to drop off a passenger. The driver rolled down his window to yell at him. Ignoring the abuse, Skinner leaned heavily on the hood of the vehicle to steady himself as he scanned left and right in search of his quarry.

 

A shout of surprise and pain drew his attention across the roadway to where a pedestrian was sent flying by the force of Alex Krycek's forward momentum. Skirting the cab, he dodged the morning traffic and renewed his pursuit on the other side of the road, his hopes rising as he began to make ground on the other man.

 

By now he could make out the look of fear on Krycek's face as the man snatched quick glances over his shoulder at his pursuer.

 

In an act of sheer desperation Krycek ran into the road and launched himself at the metal strapping attached to the side of a contractor's truck, his feet seeking purchase on its lowest rung. He slid off but kept running, finding the strength from somewhere to make another attempt. This time his single handed grip held and he looked back at Skinner with a blank expression, as the truck driver ran a changing light and vehicle and Krycek disappeared into the all consuming rush hour traffic.

 

With Krycek gone Skinner stumbled to a halt. Feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut, he sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, uncaring of the grime and indignity. His lungs laboured to supply the amount of oxygen he needed and his leg muscles ached with the build up of lactic acid. But most bitter of all was the defeat - to have been so close –

 

As soon as he was sure his rubbery legs would bear his weight, he re-holstered his gun and dragged himself up from the pavement. The scowl he wore took care of the few curious onlookers still remaining. He began to retrace his steps to the abandoned apartment, pressing his left hand into his ribcage in an attempt to ease the stitch that bit into him.

 

Turning out of the alleyway into the residential street where the chase had begun, his eye was caught by the glint of gold metal in the grass verge. He bent down and picked up the keychain Krycek must have dropped in his flight. At least he wouldn't have to break into the apartment and deal with the unwelcome attention that might bring. He closed and locked the car door he'd left lying open, then crossed to Kyrcek's apartment and let himself in.

 

Inside all was orderly, if sparsely furnished. He had only the faintest hope of finding the palm pilot among the man's few belongings, but it was worth the effort. He began systematically to search. He'd done this many times before, going through someone's personal affects with the eye of a detached observer, interested only in whatever he could find to incriminate. But he found himself taking a different approach with the worldly possessions of Alex Krycek. As he opened each drawer and cupboard and handled the items contained within them, he found himself searching for something more tenuous than evidence, though what exactly he wasn't sure. Maybe an insight into the man who had tortured and killed him, before bringing him back to life. The man who had loved him into oblivion, before he'd betrayed him with a casualness that still took his breath away.

 

He sat down on the narrow bed and took a cursory look through in the nightstand. Like the rest of the items now scattered haphazardly across the room, its contents were of no interest. From their generic nature he suspected they had little significance for Krycek either. Just a collection of things that could be easily replaced when the time came to move on. He dropped them on the floor one by one and reached in his pocket for his cell phone. He dialled the number for the Gunmen.

 

Frohike answered, "Yeah?"

 

"Skinner. He was here, but I lost him. I want you to start again," he requested.

 

"We'll get on it. It's a pity, that was a lucky lead … "

 

"But it didn't work out," Skinner interrupted him.

 

"Right. I'll get back to you if anything turns up."

 

Skinner snapped the phone shut and that was when he noticed it. A sliver of brown paper protruding from below the nightstand. He tilted the piece of furniture back and retrieved the envelope. Creased and well worn, it held a ragged collection of papers and photographs. It was clear to Skinner that, unlike the other items in the apartment, these things meant a great deal to Alex Krycek. One by one he laid them out on the bed cover beside him. Some were old, like the fading snapshot of a toddler being swung high between two smiling parents. Others were more recent, like the graduation diploma from Quantico –

 

Skinner's breath caught in his chest when he lifted away the diploma and found what was below it. A photograph of himself - the one that had disappeared from his apartment. Krycek must have stolen it on the one memorable occasion he had been there. It was the picture taken at the 20th reunion of his platoon from the Corps. He looked at his own smiling face like it was the face of a stranger, finding himself unable to remember what it had been like to spend time with friends, feeling safe and carefree.

 

What he found beneath the photograph surprised him even more.

 

It was a badly xeroxed copy of an agent evaluation sheet. One completed by Assistant Director Walter Skinner describing the performance of Agent Alex Krycek.

 

Shakily he read his own words – unusually mature approach – surprisingly insightful – recommend greater responsibility – the words blurred as he relived the day he wrote it.

 

Krycek was to be partnered with Mulder in Scully's absence. Skinner hadn't made the decision, but he approved it. The young agent had shown himself worthy. Skinner gave him the assignment and watched the glow of pride warm the beautiful features. He found himself responding to the young man's presence in all sorts of ways and, finding an answering response, he hungrily gave way to the feelings.

 

Against a hastily locked door he took Alex Krycek's sweet, eager mouth and set alight a flame that still burned hot in his blood He'd had two weeks of blissful insanity before reality hit.

 

When it had been exposed, Krycek's duplicity had hurt him like a physical attack. He could feel the echoes of the pain still. But it had left him with the certain knowledge that Alex Krycek was rotten to the core, and it made hating him easy.

 

Looking at the picture and photocopy in his hands he felt that conviction begin to crumble round the edges. Why would a man, who had used and betrayed him so blatantly, keep among his most precious possessions second hand tokens of a man who meant nothing to him?

 

Skinner placed the two pieces of paper on the pillow. He put the other items back in the envelope and returned it to its hiding place. Standing up he took a final look around the room. Only the faint lingering scent of the man marked it out as the territory of Alex Krycek. He breathed it in deeply, letting it stir a few sleeping memories.

 

Then he left the apartment.

 

Standing on the steps outside the front door he stood for a long moment letting his senses run free. Krycek wasn't the only one with good instincts. He knew he was being watched. Deliberately he pulled the door closed and left the key and chain hanging in the lock. The message was clear. Knowing it would be pointless to stake out the building again, he was giving Alex permission to retrieve his belongings.

 

As he walked back to his car he found himself smiling at Alex's boundless capacity to take him unawares.


End file.
